Hope is the Thing With Feathers
by shan14
Summary: Kurt is midway through preparing for school when he notices Pavarotti's sudden, inexplicable silence.


Kurt is midway through preparing for school when he notices Pavarotti's sudden, inexplicable silence.

"Pavarotti?" he questions slowly, slipping from his stool to kneel by the canary's cage. The little golden bird is curled up on its side deathly still and Kurt knows without question that his time on earth is through.

"Oh Pavarotti," he breaths slowly, and unhinges the birds cage. He lifts him slowly into his arms and rests the tiny being on his lap, stroking back his silky feathers. A tear slips gently down his cheek, running along his jaw as his lip quivers and his eyes blur. He blinks, swallowing.

"I'm so sorry," he murmurs.

* * *

Burt finds him half an hour later, already running late for school, and still curled on the floor in his robe.

"K oh, Kurt." He sighs and shuffles into his son's room, rounding the corner of his bed before he stops and rests a hand on Kurt's shoulder.

"I'm sorry son. I know the bird meant a lot to you."

Kurt looks up, eyes rimmed red and still bleary with tears, and nods, stroking back the dead birds feathers. Burt winces and squeezes his son's shoulder.

"You're going to be late for school," he reminds gently.

* * *

He sets his satchel down carefully in the kitchen; lays the garment bag over the end of a chair, and ignores the odd stare from Finn as he shuffles towards the kettle.

"Burt told me about the bird," he starts, but pauses as Kurt stills his movements.

He sucks in a breath, stuffs a piece of toast in his mouth and chews quickly, but then relaxes as Kurt turns his head slightly to nod.

"I'm sorry dude."

"Thanks, Finn." His brothers' voice is scratchy, and Finn wonder's if this means he's been crying.

When Kurt takes a seat and wraps his hands nimbly around a steaming mug, Finn softly, slowly, reaches a hand up and grips his shoulder.

* * *

They're studying Dickinson in class and Kurt clenches and unclenches his fist the whole way through Nick's toneless recitation.

_Hope is the thing with feathers, that perches in the soul_

_And sings the tune without the words and never stops at all_

He shuts his eyes tight and rests his head in his hands and tries not to picture the empty cage on his dressing table.

* * *

He wonders if anyone has ever lost the team mascot before.

_Did you know that real Warblers won't sing alone? It's true if a Warbler loses it's flock or is caged separately it sits silent until another one shows up. It's not that he doesn't have a beautiful voice it's just that without a companion he just doesn't feel like singing anymore._

"Hey, Kurt," he hears David call loudly across the courtyard. "Warblers practice this afternoon in the common room. See you then?"

Kurt pauses, thinks about lying, and then nods quickly.

* * *

He avoids Blaine until lunchtime when his friend bounces towards him across the courtyard.

"Hey you," Blaine beams; vivacious as ever, satchel strapped securely across his chest.

Kurt smiles back tightly, "Hi."

"Lunch?"

Blaine slinks a hand around his back for a quick squeeze and then darts away, tugging him towards their table, knocking their shoulders as Nick joins them before taking a seat as a group slowly forms.

He remains quiet, watches the Warbler's unfold before him; a bubbly mess of teenage boys brimming with hormones and unbridled thoughts. Listens to Nick recount his hands slow decline around the shoulder of his date at the cinema notes Blaine's smile, and snort, and the little whip of cream cheese at the corner of his mouth as his tongue flickers out to lick at it.

Notes the heavy press of the sun as it climbs higher and higher overhead and imagines Pavarotti finally free of the steel and chains of his cage.

Kurt sits back and tilts his head to the sky and thinks, _every day is the same, isn't it Blaine_. _Are you ever going to see me?_

He smiles softly against the sun and hopes the tiny bird is flying.

* * *

_Later that afternoon he sings Blackbird against a steady chorus of mourning boys and misses the light in Blaine awaken as his breath hitches and he ignites._

* * *

"Kurt?"

Burt yells gently down the hallway. "You home?"

Kurt hums in response.

Footsteps clamber down the floorboards until his father swings into view.

"What are you doing?"

Kurt blinks, curls his fists into his sides, and sits up from where he's been spread on his back on the floor.

"Nothing."

Burt's brow shifts. He hums. "You sure you're okay buddy?"

"Yeah dad."

"School?"

"Is school."

"That all?"

Kurt sighs, "I think maybe I'm realising I should stop hoping for anything more at Dalton."

Burt doesn't understand, and Kurt understands that, at least. He smiles at his father. Burt nods. "Okay."

* * *

_That night he dreams the gates close at Dalton. _

_He's standing before the wrought iron; Blaine's tiny figure a mere dot on the other side, and Kurt presses himself to the cold metal bars and screams and yells till his voice cracks. _

_The tiny dot of Blaine turns quickly, and without a glance walks through the wooden doors. _

* * *

He wakes panting and sweat stained and itching to call Blaine so he stuffs his fingers underneath his thighs and instead counts to one hundred. Then two hundred. Later, he descends the stairs and heats milk over the stove and curls in the lounge room with the television flickering a late night showtime movie on mute.

* * *

He must fall asleep; he must dream; when he awakes Carole is brushing his bangs back gently and he can remember being picked up on the wings of a tiny, golden bird and flying into a bright light.

"Bad dream, sweetheart?"

His mouth is stuffy and tastes sour. He licks at his lips and screws his eyes shut. "Yeah."

"Pancakes?"

Kurt's eaten fruit and cereal for breakfast before school since his first day of kindergarten; but he pauses a moment.

"Yes please."

"I think maybe Pavarotti's death is a sign that nothing is going to change, or happen, at Dalton," he sighs gently. The pancake mix pops gently as it bubbles, the thick smell of delicious batter curling in the air.

"At Dalton, or with Blaine?" Carol asks.

Kurt remains quiet, fixing his eyes on the stove.

"Kurt?"

He doesn't notice his hands are shaking.

"He doesn't love me, Carole. He doesn't even like me, not like I want him to. And he's not going to."

Carole covers his hands within her own, cradling them gently. "Oh Sweetheart," she presses a kiss to his knuckles.

"This is more than a crush, isn't it?" she sighs; and past names go unmentioned between them.

"I don't know what this is," he murmurs, voice wavering, lips trembling under tears.

Carole presses a kiss to his forehead and his cheek and his nose.

"I'm sorry darling."

* * *

Blaine trips over a pot plant on their way to first period and walks backwards into a door as Kurt passes him on the way to fourth. At lunch he spills a bottle of water down his tie and blushes so furiously that Kurt can't help the swell of giggles that erupts as Wes knocks the back of his head.

"_Sectionals are next week dummy! You better have learnt to walk again by then!"_

By the time Blaine gets to Warbler's practice he's brimming with unrestrained energy and Kurt tries to ignore what he hopes is the other boys disappointment as Blaine realises he can't sit next to Kurt on the couch.

The boys are arguing over their song list Thad indignant on the council's bench and Trent scandalized that anyone would dare insult Blaine's prowess Kurt rolls his eyes and thinks _I may have fallen in love with this boy, but this boy is ridiculous_.

For the first time thinks he might survive with Blaine as his best friend.

"Enough! I'm tired of this."

Kurt rests his head against his fist and stifles a yawn.

"No, I'm tired of the Warblers being all about me."

Wait. What?

* * *

Kurt stumbles into the kitchen later that evening and meets Carols gaze, eyes blown wide.

His stepmother opens her mouth, stepping forward –

"Blaine and I are singing together at Regionals," he blurts, grinning.

"What?

Her smile grows and Kurt feels his face flush quickly and then his dad and Finn are bounding down the stairs for dinner and everything is lost in the growing familiar blur of family.

Halfway through Finn's reenactment of glee club, Carol meets his eye across the table and winks.

* * *

Kurt can't really remember the day his mother died. He remembers the pain, and his father's tears, and his grandmothers tight hold as he was pressed against her chest but he can't remember the light going out, so to speak.

He can remember her funeral, however, to the very last white rose and spoken memory and black suit and tie combination in the crowd of people. If he closes his eyes and thinks back to that day he can feel the press of his fathers hand in his own and the steady _thump, thump, thump_ of his heart hammering against his chest.

Sometimes when he visits her grave he can imagine her gentle voice on the breeze that whistles softly.

_Kurt, darling, you've grown you're so tall. Such a beautiful boy I'm proud of you chin up sweetheart_

He tells her about his school grades and glee club assignments and cute boys who sing in hallways. His fingers know each nook and crevices of the rough indentations of Elizabeth Hummel's name carved in stone.

He dreams that night of her long locks being brushed at the vanity and of sitting by her grave in the afternoon sun with a thin arm locked tight around his waist, a soft nose pressed to his collarbone.

He looks up and the boy's lips follow the line of his jaw, curling softly as the small golden bird swoops low in the dying rays of light.

_Blaine_, he breathes and squirms as the lips dip lower; he leans back against a strong chest and imagines his mother's knowing smile.

_I like this one_, her voice whistles gentle on the breeze.

* * *

"What are you doing before lunch?" Blaine asks quickly, pressed up against his side as they meet in the hallway before class.

"Nothing. Free period," he wheezes gently. Blaine's hand swings and clips his own.

"Okay."

* * *

There is a moment that afternoon, as Kurt places a delicate diamond on the small black casket.

He feels light and feathery and liable to float away only Blaine's hand is gentle on his cheek as the other curls around his side, seeking a warm body and soft skin and the scratch of his cardigan as he fists it gently.

They stumble towards the couch and Kurt wonder's how the hell no one has wandered into the room by now Dalton is not known for it's privacy and then forgets it all as Blaine's compact body slots deliciously a top his own, lips wet and messy and perfect.

"I'm sorry," the other boy mumbles; nips at his lower lip, mumbles again and brushes his cheeks and the tip of his nose and then sighs dramatically before burying his head against Kurt's chest.

Kurt makes a soft noise, nudging Blaine's forehead with his nose.

"I'm sorry I took so long to do that," Blaine explains.

"Oh," Kurt pauses. "Don't be. It was worth it." His voice is high and breathy so he gathers Blaine closer and hums against his forehead.

His heart beats erratically, like a full flight of birds has taken up residence, alongside the butterflies the flutter in his stomach and the frog in his throat. He giggles softly and squirms as Blaine tucks his nose in the crook of his neck and then with a deep breath settles to drift his hand down the boy's spine.

Thinks, this is what hope feels like.

This is what it feels to be warm.

* * *

_Hope is the thing with feathers  
That perches in the soul,  
And sings the tune-without the words,  
And never stops at all,_

_And sweetest in the gale is heard;  
And sore must be the storm  
That could abash the little bird  
That kept so many warm._

_I've heard it in the chillest land,  
And on the strangest sea;  
Yet, never, in extremity,  
It asked a crumb of me._

-Emily Dickinson


End file.
